


The Heavy Mist of Champagne

by pb_jwaffles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, Ficlet, Gen Fic, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pb_jwaffles/pseuds/pb_jwaffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from a party a bit inebriated. John is both amused and touched by the things that Sherlock says in this state.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heavy Mist of Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a challenge posted on the livejournal Sherlock kink meme. The prompt was basically to take your favorite quote from a book/movie/song/show and write fic using it/based on it. I chose to use several quotes from a fantastic movie called The Philadelphia Story. At the end, I will be sure to tell which bits came from that movie, because those aren’t my words.
> 
> This can be read as either John/Sherlock preslash or gen. Whatever floats your boat!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I am making no money from this fic. I also don't own The Philadelphia Story. This is all just for fun!

John started awake from his doze on the sofa as the front door to the flat burst open and Sherlock stumbled through the doorway. He only managed two steps before his legs gave out and he sank into a graceful puddle on the floor.

Even in the half-darkened light of their sitting room, John could see the pink flush spread across Sherlock’s cheekbones. The buttons of his coat were done up the wrong way and his scarf hung loosely around his neck. In this instance, John didn’t need to do much deducing to understand what had happened.

He sighed and levered himself from the sofa with as much energy as he could muster. “You’re drunk.”

“Will you never stop stating the obvious?” Though normally the words would have betrayed his impatience, there was no hint of that in Sherlock’s tone. John watched a pleased grin stretch slowly across his face, one which he ended up mirroring with an amused smile of his own.

John crossed the room and knelt down, ignoring the protest of his knees and his aching body, until he was eye level with Sherlock. “Sorry. It’s just, I was under the impression that Holmes’s don’t get drunk.”

“No, John, my boy. Quite mistaken. We get drunk with the best of them.” Sherlock struggled out of his coat and pushed it to the ground. The scarf made a similar journey and ended up beside it.

John huffed out a laugh. “I thought this was Mycroft’s engagement party, not some drunken pub crawl. I should have known better. Now I wish I could’ve been there. Damn flu.”

Sherlock patted John rather clumsily on the head, with a bit more force than was necessary. “No, John. You needed your rest.” He looked up and down John’s crouched form. “But you look better now. I’m glad.”

Although John was amused, he didn’t quite understand how Sherlock had gotten drunk. He’d seen the man imbibe on various occasions for cases, sometimes only a little, sometimes a lot. And yet, he’d never once seen Sherlock like this before. How had it happened?

Sherlock, it seemed, could follow John’s silent train of thought, even when completely pissed, and answered John’s unasked question.

“Champagne’s funny stuff.” He spoke as though he was imparting some great truth to the world. “I’m used to whiskey. Whiskey is a slap on the back and champagne’s heavy mist before my eyes.”

“Jesus, you are drunk.” John took Sherlock by the arm and pulled him to his feet, dragging him vaguely in the direction of the hallway to his bedroom.

“John, my feet are made of clay,” Sherlock said, laughing. “Made of clay! Did you know?”

“You do realize that everything you say tonight is going on my blog in the morning.”

“Good. As long as you’re still writing that ridiculous thing, I might as well give you something to write about.”

“More than what you’ve already given me?”

Sherlock nodded.

"All right. Go on, then."

Sherlock took a breath. “You’re wonderful.”

John stopped and looked at his companion, whose eyes seemed to be trained on the burn mark on the wallpaper across the hall. “Er, all right. Maybe we should…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know. Go to bed, I guess. It’s late.”

Sherlock ignored him with a shake of his head and continued, “There’s a radiance about you, John, one I’ve never found in anyone else. It bleeds from your pores, covers you like a cloak.”

He pulled himself from John’s grasp, taking John’s hands in his own, examining each in its turn. “You leave your mark on all you touch. Everything around me is covered in millions of these little, glittering prints. Perfect copies of those perfect surgeon hands, with all the whorls and ridges of your palms and fingers. There’s so many of them. You almost can’t see the darkness that was once underneath.”

He paused, finally looking up to John’s face. “John, you’ve got tears in your eyes.”

John cleared his throat. “Here I thought I was the writer.”

“Don’t worry. You are. Just giving you some inspiration.” Sherlock leaned down, placing a loud kiss at the corner of John’s eye.

John was so shocked by the gesture that it was only an afterthought that he wondered where Sherlock had actually been aiming for.

“Good night, little man,” Sherlock called before he closed his bedroom door, leaving John alone in the moonlight hallway, fingers pressed to the warm spot above his cheek.

John shook his head. The man was obviously mad. He’d just have to wait for Sherlock to shrug off the heavy mist of champagne clinging to him before getting any clarification.

He headed upstairs for his laptop, eager to remember every word Sherlock had said. It would make interrogating him in the morning that much easier.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the following are bits and pieces that inspired this. Some of the quotes I took verbatum, while others I changed up a bit to fit my story.
> 
> "Champagne's funny stuff. I’m used to whiskey. Whiskey is a slap on the back and champagne’s heavy mist before my eyes."
> 
> "My feet are made of clay. Made of clay! Did you know?”
> 
> “You’re wonderful.”
> 
> "Maybe we should…”
> 
> “Yes?”
> 
> “I don’t know. Go up, I guess. It’s late.” (Yes, I changed this to fit better)
> 
> "You’ve got tears in your eyes."
> 
> “Good night, little man.”
> 
> Basically, all the good parts came from The Philadelphia Story. I just sort of built a frame to go around it. :D


End file.
